


To Have You

by rhye



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 01:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhye/pseuds/rhye
Summary: A show-verse 'arrival at Winterfell' scene with a gratuitous wedding proposal.





	To Have You

By the time he arrived at the gates of Winterfell, he'd ridden two horses to death. The third had served him shortest yet somehow best. When the guards opened the gate for him, thinking him a Northerner begging a place by the fire, they took the mare for the Northern crown, declaring that they needed good horses for the coming war. Jaime didn't contest this; he might see her again on the battle field, perhaps even between his thighs as he rode to his death. He thought to beg for an audience with Ned Stark's bastard or the Mad King's daughter, but Jaime Lannister did not beg.

One stupid Northern brute of a guard pushed Jaime towards the corner of the outer yard where smallfolk were gathered around a fire.

Isolation was the only thing that kept Northerners alive, Jaime thought. If any enemy could show up at the gate and be let in, shown a fire, and left unattended in the outer bailey-- But Winterfell was far from any living enemy. The Starks were beloved of their people, and Jaime guessed this was why. They didn't have to worry over Ironborn raiders or Martell poisoners sneaking through their keep.

He did take a minute to warm himself by the fire, though, pulling off his left glove with his teeth.

He should find Tyrion. He doubted very much that he had outpaced the Dragon Queen and her entourage, but if they had made a detour, he supposed that would leave him to treat with Sansa Stark. But even if Tyrion was in the keep, Jaime knew he was a piece for Sansa Stark to play, not the Hand of the Queen. In truth, Jaime couldn't be sure about his brother's loyalty. Tyrion's queen commanded him, and she was as fire-mad as her father, from what he'd seen. Would Tyrion feel guilt or remorse if Jaime burned? Likely. Would he commit treason to stop it? No. Jaime wondered what Sansa Stark thought of Daenerys Targaryen. He had known Sansa little enough. She was an enigma. But if she were anything like her mother or father, she would keep her own counsel. He did not expect that Sansa would look with favor upon the Kingslayer, but perhaps she would look with favor upon a cyvasse piece of her own to control. Jaime knew his stubborn, wonderful wench would almost certainly bring him before the Lady of Winterfell.

Warmer now, Jaime set off to find Brienne of Tarth.

It did not take long. He had expected to see her training, and there she was. Her blue armor gleamed, a startling contrast to her golden sword. She was moving through her footwork alone, hands clenched tightly on the roaring lion hilt of Oathkeeper.

Jaime felt strange, suddenly. Eager, with acid spilling into his chest in anticipation-- nervous, hoping she would understand him without too many words-- regretful, the he had lived a life that continually took him away from her. No more.

Her sweet dancing stopped and she sheathed the sword to face an approaching opponent, picking up a practice sword.

"I hope yeh fight as good as yeh dance," the red-haired giant laughed, lifting his own sword. "Still, I'm sure I can take yeh."

Brienne said nothing. Jaime walked peacefully across the yard, watching the sparring match begin.

"Yeh say if I beat yer, I can steal yah?"

"You can try," Brienne's voice rang clear. "You will not succeed. And if I win, you will cease the suggestive comments."

"Who says I was suggesting? I was inviting."

Tourney steal had a hollow, deep ring so different from the buttery bite of true steal, and different yet from the resonant vibrations of Valyrian steel. Steel, steel was music to Jaime's ears. He knew every kind of steel. He also knew the steel of his lady's voice.

Her blade caught the underside of the wildling's and she used her body weight to shove him backwards. Jaime saw the problem immediately. Brienne was used to fighting smaller opponents, used to having the body-weight advantage. This wildling Jaime recognized from the Dragon Pit. He was her equal in size and strength.He did not falter at her blow, and instead brought his sword around and nearly disarmed her. Nearly. But she would learn, and he would not get so close again.

Jaime tutted and then his voice rang out, clear and lovely-- "If you want to beat the wench, the way's with words, not blades. She's useless as a mule in a battle of wits." He smiled.

Brienne's sword arm had dropped, and her sword fell clean to the ground.

Jaime waved to the fallen sword. "There you go. At least I can still best the lady in surprise," he raised his glove-covered golden hand, "if not in steel."

"Ser Jaime." Her voice was deep and honey-filled and frightened.

"Who's this?" The wildling said.

"When did you get here?" Brienne asked, breathless.

"Not an hour hence." All jest faded from Jaime's voice as he caught her eyes and said, "I sought you first. I killed two horses getting here. I left Cersei." So many confessions for one evening.

"The sisterfucker?" the wildling exclaimed.

Jaime's eyes shifted back to the brute. "If you mean to insult me, I've done worse things that fuck her. I've _helped_ her. Why is everyone so concerned with who I fuck? The whole realm. Aren't you a wildling? The whole world, it seems." His attention focused back to Brienne, who was blushing crimson and staring at him slack-jawed. He smiled. "Are you prepared, my lady?"

She licked her lips. "For what?"

"To be next, of course."

"Next for what? Ser Jaime--"

He stepped into the space that would have been behind her guard, had she still been holding a sword. He moved too fast for her to react. That had been his ploy, once, on a battle field. Keep talking, and move fast.

He didn't touch her, wanting to give her an escape route, as he pressed his lips against hers. Praise the gods, she did not escape, but her own hands came up and captured his face. The callouses buried themselves in the thick beard he had grown on the road.

When they broke the kiss, both were panting. Without an ounce of humor, Jaime answered, "To fuck the Kingslayer. There won't be a tongue within the realm or beyond it that won't wag. Your honor would be besmirched even though we wed-- and I do intend to wed you, my lady-- and Cersei will not rest until we are both dead."

"Cersei does not scare me," Brienne said. It was a lie.

"Does losing your honor scare you?" He was standing so close that her eyes were nearly all he could see. It was like drowning.

"People have thought me a traitor before. They have thought me a kingslayer. You speak not of honor, but of reputation."

Jaime tilted his head to acknowledge the difference. "Are you prepared to lose your reputation, then?"

"I'm afraid I've found one of those moral quandaries you once related. If I marry you, I will lose my reputation. But if I don't, I will lose my honor."

"How so?"

"Because I would surely bed you either way, if you are like to have me."

Jaime laughed so hard he doubled over. Brienne wasn't laughing. She grunted. "Why is that funny? Is this a jape?"

Jaime thrust out his hand. "No, no. No!" He was smiling now, and suddenly it didn't even matter if the Dragon Queen decided to burn him, because he had _her_. "No, milady, I would very much like to _have_ you."

She blushed, and he laced her arm around his. They walked away from the wildling and the practice yard.

"Where are we going?" Brienne asked.

"To find your lady," Jaime said, all seriousness. "I know you too well, you see, and I know you will need to report this all to her. I must come and see that someone can speak to my sincerity, since you don't believe it yourself."

But who could blame her, he thought. His own sudden joy was too great to be believed, and he was afraid it would soon evaporate. So who at all could blame her of being suspicious of finding a happy ending, here at the end of the world.


End file.
